Instead he pushed her through the door, following her before closing it firmly behind him. Before she could protest he spun to face her. The wild worry in his eyes stole her breath.
“What happened?”
Her gaze fell from his, her arms wrapping about her waist as she stepped back from him. “Nothing.”
He let loose a frustrated breath, his hand combing through his hair. Tension rolled off him in waves. “Clara, please don’t lie to me. I saw the change that came over you when the cottage was mentioned. You appeared utterly devastated.”
“Don’t mention it to me,” she choked, trying and failing to forget her son’s tiny, pale face. Her heart shuddered, all the unhealed cracks she’d tried so hard to hold together coming undone.
“Clara—”
She reared back as he reached for her. “Don’t!”
He froze, his shock a palpable thing. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice slow and careful as he backed away.
She stared at him, impotent grief filling her. Tears burned her eyes. She’d been a fool to think she could escape her past, or that she would eventually forget her heartache and all she’d lost.
“I need you to leave,” she mumbled.
“Damn it, Clara—”
“Leave.”
The single word was quiet and stark, as broken as she felt. And more powerful than any shout could have been if his reaction was anything to go by. He sucked in a sharp breath, dropping his hands to his sides, his strong shoulders drooping as if all the fight had drained out of him.
“I told you I had no intention of marrying,” she continued, purposely slicing through her pain, needing the wound to stay open and bleeding in order to find the strength to break from him. He was stubborn, perhaps even more stubborn than she. It would be no easy thing to convince him that what they’d had was over.
She rearranged her features into cool disdain and forced herself to lie.
“Mayhap you thought my coming to you last night was a confession of deeper feelings than are truly there. But it was just physical, Quincy. If you believed that our proximity today was an indication that I had changed my mind about marrying you, you’re wrong. How else were we to continue making the others believe our engagement was real if not to continue pretending we were in love? I intend to see this agreement of ours through, and then we may both go our separate ways after Phoebe’s wedding without any expectations. Just as we determined we would from the start.”
He stared at her a long moment, the only sound their harsh breathing mingling in the gaping abyss between them. Then, with a silent nod, he turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Leaving her alone with her heartbreak.
* * *
Quincy didn’t know how long he sat on the stairs with his head in his hands. The sounds of merriment drifted down the hall to him, the muted laughter and conversation making him feel more alone than he ever had in his life. Even after his father died, when he had huddled under his desk crying, he’d not felt such desolation. Then, he’d used that grief to fuel his anger enough to leave that place and forge a new life. Now, however, there seemed no option where he would win. A life without Clara was no life at all; no matter that he’d told himself he would leave if she refused him, he saw now he’d been fooling himself. And he could not see a way past whatever was holding her back.
After what seemed an eternity, he felt a hand on his shoulder. But though the weight of it was too heavy to be Clara’s, it was still one he knew well.
“Peter,” he said without looking up. “Shouldn’t you be helping your wife?”
His friend grunted then sank, with a sigh, to the step beside Quincy. “I do believe this is a more pressing problem.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Quincy muttered. Even so, he could not dredge the strength to raise his head.
There was a beat of silence. And then his friend’s gruff voice softer than Quincy had ever heard it: “You’ve fallen in love with Clara, haven’t you?”
That finally was the prodding Quincy needed to rally some energy. He straightened, casting a disgruntled look at Peter. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Right now, there is no place more important. And I’ve two good ears to hear whatever you might need to get off your chest.”
Just then a burst of laughter rose up from the drawing room. “But not here,” Peter muttered, casting a glare in the general direction of the sound. He rose, nudging Quincy’s shoulder. “Come along then. We’ll hide away in my study and you can tell me everything.”
“And if I don’t wish to tell you everything?” Quincy grumbled as he rose and fell into step beside Peter, torn between frustration that his feelings had been seen so clearly and relief that his friend wanted to help him.
“Then you can stay sullen and silent and listen to me prattle on about what a horse’s arse you are.”
The normalcy of the insult drew a reluctant laugh from Quincy. Soon they entered the study and Peter closed the door firmly behind them.
“I swear,” Peter muttered as he strode to the sideboard, “I was a damn fool for agreeing to this mad scheme of Phoebe’s. Whole house overrun with spoiled aristocrats. This is my worst nightmare come to life.”
“Except you are now one of those despised aristocrats,” Quincy said with as much levity as he could muster. Which was not very much. With a groan he lowered himself into a chair before the hearth. The fire blazing merrily away could not warm the chill that had taken root inside him.
“Don’t remind me.” There was the faint clink of glass. And then Peter was at his side, pressing a drink into his hand. “Besides, you’re one of those aristocrats, too,” he said as he lowered himself into a chair. “Though after getting to know your mother’s character these past days, I understand why you wanted to leave it all behind. Just let me know if you want me to throw the woman out on her ear. I shall do it, and gladly.”
Quincy snorted. “Do you truly want the wrath of the Duchess of Reigate on your head, man?”
“She may be a duchess,” Peter said with a wicked smile, “but I’m a bloody duke now. And if I can’t utilize it for something good, what the hell is the purpose of it?”
The laugh that burst from Quincy’s lips was freeing. “Damn, but I’ve missed your company.”
Peter grinned. “And I you. Though,” he continued with a stern look, “don’t think this gets you out of discussing Clara.”
In a moment Quincy’s mood, which had begun to lighten, fell back into its hopeless gloom again. “What is there to talk about?” he muttered, taking a drink of his whiskey. “She won’t have me, and I see no way to get past the defenses she’s put up around her.”
“You’ve proposed then?”
“I did ask her if she would marry me in truth, yes.”
“And you told her your feelings?”
“I tried.”
Peter snorted. “Tried? There is no trying, man. Only doing.”
Quincy gave a humorless laugh. “She wouldn’t let me.”
There was a beat of silence. Peter stared at him, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”
Quincy exhaled in frustration. “I started to say the words. I love you was literally coming out of my mouth. She stopped me; refused to hear it.”
“Refused?” Peter’s jaw dropped. “How the hell does a person refuse to hear a declaration?”
“I don’t know,” Quincy replied with a grim smile. “But she did it, I assure you. Said she didn’t want to hear it. Claimed it would make things worse.” He drained his glass, needing the burn of the whiskey in his gut to drown out the desolation that was beginning to take over him again. “I know something happened to her, something that damaged her ability to trust. But she won’t tell me.” He slammed the empty glass down on the small table beside him, the agitated action doing nothing to ease his frustration.
Peter remained quiet. Too quiet. Quincy looked at him and was shocked at the guilt that filled his features. His senses sh
arpened, and he sat forward. “What is it, man?”
Peter studied him for a long moment, his clear blue eyes clouded with whatever troubled thoughts were swirling about in his head. Finally, he spoke.
“You’re right that there’s something in her past that nearly destroyed her.”
The breath left Quincy in a rush. Before he could ask what that thing was, however, Peter held up a meaty hand.
“But I cannot tell you the particulars. She told me in confidence last year when I reconciled with her father. It took an incredible amount of strength to reveal it to me; I cannot break her trust. Not even for you.”
Whatever excitement and hope had been building in Quincy was doused in a heartbeat. “You’re right,” he said, slumping back against his seat. “And I wouldn’t want you to tell me. I need her to trust me, or this won’t work between us.”
Peter nodded morosely. “I wish with all my heart I could tell you, to help you in any way I can. Though—”
“Though?”
Peter frowned. “I do get the feeling she didn’t tell me the whole of it.” He shook his head, as if clearing a troubling image from his brain with force. “Truthfully, I’m not certain she’s ever told anyone the whole of it. Though everyone around her adores her, I don’t think I have ever seen anyone so lonely.”
The words chilled Quincy. It was too true; he’d sensed it himself. Whatever happened to Clara, she’d made a life out of distancing herself from everyone around her. And it seemed years in the making.
“I’ve seen a change in her since you arrived,” Peter added quietly, his gaze considering as he regarded Quincy. “There’s something different about her, a joy in life that wasn’t present before.” When Quincy could only stare at him, Peter leaned forward, clapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I pray she confides in you, my friend. For both your sakes.”
“I do, as well,” Quincy said quietly.
Chapter 20
No matter the heartbreak of the night before, no matter the sleepless hours Clara had spent staring up at the ceiling in a futile attempt to forget Quincy and what they might have had, the world kept turning. It seemed impossible that it could do so. And yet there was the proof of it, the sunlight streaming in through Clara’s window as the following day dawned bright.
Rising from her bed was the very last thing she wanted to do. So she pulled the covers up over her head and curled into a ball on her side instead. Mayhap if she pretended the day hadn’t begun, it might hold off indefinitely. And she need not face Quincy again.
That hope was dashed minutes later when her maid entered.
“Lady Clara, the sun is shining on this wonderful day,” Anne chirped. “Let’s get you up and dressed; I’m sure there’s much to do.”
Clara only closed her eyes tighter. Beyond her cocoon of blankets the maid moved about the room, her cheerful whistle accompanying the closing of doors and the rustle of clothing as she set out Clara’s gown and things for the day. The pathetic hope that Anne might leave when Clara stayed stubbornly tucked under her fabric mound died a swift death when the maid yanked the covers back. The sunlight assaulted her senses and she recoiled from it with a low moan, pressing her face into her pillow.
“Come now, Lady Clara,” Anne said with a bright smile. “It’s a beautiful day, and you’ve only so many hours in it to enjoy.”
Normally Clara appreciated Anne’s optimism. Now, however, it grated on her. It seemed nothing should be happy again, not while her heart was in tatters.
But she couldn’t put off the day indefinitely. Heaving a sigh, she rose from her bed, wincing as her muscles protested. She had not realized just how tense she had been throughout the night, how stiffly she’d held herself in an attempt to contain her heartache.
Anne quickly went to work, and in no time Clara was nearly ready for the day. As the maid put the finishing touches to her hair, however, Clara’s mind began to wander. And what should it wander to, but Quincy.
She would never forget the stark hurt on his face last night. Or how badly she had wanted to call him back and retract every cold, untruthful thing she had said.
But this was for the best, she told herself firmly. They needed a clean break. Surely he would leave her in peace now.
She nearly let loose a bitter laugh. Peace. As if she would ever find peace with this.
“My lady? Excuse me, Lady Clara?”
Clara blinked, focusing on her maid in the looking glass. “I am so sorry, Anne. I’m afraid my mind has wandered.”
The other woman smiled in understanding, patting Clara’s shoulder. “What with Lady Phoebe’s marriage quickly approaching, and your own upcoming nuptials, there must be much preying on your mind. But which of the hair adornments did you want today? The silk flowers or the ribbons?”
Upcoming nuptials. Clara gave Anne a weak smile, not wanting her to see how affected she was by those innocent words. “The silk flowers I think, thank you,” she managed.
The woman prattled on as she worked, tucking small white blooms into Clara’s curls. Only now that her attention had been diverted from Quincy, Clara could not help but hear what Anne had been talking about minutes ago. And its subject was far from welcome.
“And that Duchess of Reigate’s maid is a maddening piece of work. Always questioning, sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. I ask you, what business is it of hers where you might have gone off to when you were a girl? Or why you were so ill for so long when I first came on?”
Clara’s heart stalled in her chest. There was only one reason for the maid’s questions: the duchess was still after the truth of Clara’s past, and like a dog on the scent of blood she had sent her maid to infiltrate the people who knew the most in a household—the servants.
Forcing herself to breathe, Clara asked as casually as she could, “And what did you tell her?”
“That it was none of her business,” Anne scoffed, tucking a particularly unruly curl in place. “But she’s a persistent thing, kept badgering me and anyone else who would pay her the least mind. Finally I said to her, ‘I came on when Lady Clara was just sixteen, when her previous maid done ran off. If you want to know the details, find her.’”
How Clara kept from casting up her accounts right then and there she didn’t know. The maid in question, Flora, had stayed by Clara’s side throughout the whole ordeal of going into hiding and living through the hellacious pregnancy and stillbirth that had followed. Clara had thought their bond was unbreakable.
Until Flora had gone and offered the scandal up to the first man who waved money under her nose. It had taken Clara’s father everything in him, including a good chunk of the Dane fortune, to keep the whole thing quiet. No doubt if she could be found she would be more than willing to offer up that information again, especially if a duchess came to her door with the promise of more money.
In that moment she realized with devastating certainty that the fear would never end. Eventually the truth would out. And once it did, she would lose everything she held dear.
No, she reminded herself bitterly, she had already lost something that was infinitely precious to her. This would only complete the job.
Impotence washed over her. She was so damn tired of living this way. She clenched her hands in her lap, anger rearing up, replacing her helplessness. Well, no more. She’d lost enough to that one devastating mistake; she’d be damned if she lost anything else.
Anne finished then. With hardly a word to the startled maid, Clara bolted from the room. She was done being afraid.
Her sharp knock on the duchess’s door was answered with alacrity by a pinch-faced maid. “Yes?” the woman queried, her insolent tone accompanied by a haughty stare down her nose.
“Is Her Grace within?”
“Yes, but—”
“Thank you,” Clara said, pushing past the woman, leaving her sputtering behind her.
The duchess was sitting up in bed, a tray on her lap, a single steaming cup of chocolate clasped between h
er hands. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Clara. “Goodness,” she drawled, taking a slow sip, eyeing Clara with disdain, “one would think no one in this household has any sense of privacy, the way people continue to barge into my room without permission.”
“Enough,” Clara bit out. “I came here to tell you to stop sending your lapdog to do your bidding.”
“Pardon?”
“I know you’ve had your maid asking questions about me.”
The maid in question gasped. “Lapdog? Why, I never—”
The duchess held up a beringed hand. The maid’s jaw closed with a snap.
“Enough. Leave us.”
The woman did as she was bid. And then Clara was alone with the duchess.
A slow, cold smile lifted the woman’s lips as she considered Clara. “Frightened you with my inquiries, have I?”
“Not in the least,” Clara responded, surprised to realize just how true that was. She was beyond fear. Having to push Quincy away had broken something in her. Now the only thing simmering in her breast was anger.
“Oh, come now,” the duchess said. “You and I both know that’s not true. Else why confront me once you learned of my attempts.”
Clara shook her head in disbelief. “You won’t even deny what you’ve been doing? That you’ve been attempting to bring to light some past scandal you imagine I committed?”
One elegant shoulder lifted. “What is there to deny? I’ve stated before that I won’t have you marrying Reigate. No one crosses me, my dear.”
The confession that she and Quincy were not engaged in truth—and had never been—battered against Clara’s lips, fighting to break free.
But she would not give the woman the satisfaction. Squeezing her hands into tight fists, she glared at the duchess. “You do not get to dictate my life,” she said, voice trembling. “And you will not decree what Quincy does, either. He is a good man, who does not deserve a viper like you for a mother.”
That seemed to finally light something in the other woman. She straightened, pinning Clara with a furious glare. “You have no idea what he deserves.”
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